


Splinters

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [56]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: All aboard the Feels train, Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Expanded Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M, Order 66, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel, Time Travel Shenanigans, canon compliant for the original timeline, time travel is a pain in the ass, watch for dates when applicable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-07 04:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17358701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: Sometimes, all you have is a collection of moments, splinters from lives that others lived.That does not make them any less valuable.





	1. Padawan

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of drabbles and short stories that are canon in the Re-Entry universe, but don't/won't fit anywhere in the primary narrative. People have been wanting to see them here, so here they are, one chapter at a time.
> 
> Some of these are humorous. Others are reminders that the galaxy is chaos, and chaos has nothing to do with kindness.

Republic Date 5135: 4/20th

Jedi Temple, Coruscant

 

Yoda was annoying. Yoda was irritating. Yoda was going to end up stepped on by “accident” if he kept nattering on about his need for a Padawan. Now he really understood what Yaddle and Oppo had been grumbling about over the years.

Annoying, meddling, irritating, bald, pain in his—

“Don’t finish that thought.”

Tyvokka turned his head and glowered at T’ra Saa. [I can finish that thought if I damned well want to.]

“Not around so many telepaths, please,” T’ra Saa said, and nudged him with one of her long, grown-out tendrils. “Please consider your audience.”

Tyvokka looked up at the entrance to the crèche and groaned. [I did not actually walk all the way here.]

“You did.” T’ra was amused. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Yoda includes subtle little Force Suggestions every time he decides to pester a Master about taking a Padawan. Though he is right, you know—it’s been thirty years since your last student, Tyv.”

[I taught four Padawans in a row, and I was due for a vacation from chasing after young fools doing their best to get themselves killed.] Tyvokka sighed. [Fine. Let’s go in. Perhaps I will find a youngling of a stone-like species, the better to place them atop Yoda’s bald head.]

“You’re not allowed to do that unless I am present to watch,” T’ra reminded him, and left him to his doom.

 _Perhaps I should not be so cynical,_ Tyvokka thought as he entered the crèche proper and ghosted around its edges, watching the controlled chaos. Most of his reticence came from the fact that young Vitruvian, his last Padawan, had blasted well given him premature silver hair. He was two hundred and fifty years old, and that was far too soon to be silvering like an elder.

It was a surprise to stumble upon an altercation among the older Initiates. Spats and brawls among the cubs were not entirely unheard of, but it was an exceptional rarity.

Tyvokka nodded to one of the approaching crèche Masters, indicating that he would deal with the fallout. The Trandoshan seemed to sigh, gave his species’ equivalent of a shrug, and turned around to herd much younger cubs into a classroom.

It was soon evident that there was a disagreement between a young Zeltron boy and a hir of mixed humanoid parentage. The Zeltron was the right height and build for his age, of the exact range for apprenticeship, while the hir looked to have grown into their height far too early—they were a good handspan taller than the Zeltron. Tyvokka suspected that the hir was years younger than the Zeltron, as well.

When the fight advanced to the shoving stage, Tyvokka moved to intervene, but another cub did it for him. That one was far shorter than both Zeltron and hir. He was hairless, brown-skinned, and…ah! Tyvokka smiled as he recognized the species. A Kel Dor. The Temple did not get many of Dorin’s cubs. They tended to educate their own.

“Stop it, Kefe,” the Kel Dor said in a quiet voice.

The Zeltron glared at him. “Why should I?”

“Because you started it!” the Kel Dor hissed. “He’s six, Kefe! He doesn’t know any better yet, but you do!”

“That’s because he’s a mutant freak,” Kefe taunted, speaking directly over the Kel Dor’s shoulder to taunt the hir. “Right, Voggie?”

For some unknown reason, that was the last straw. Kefe and hir came to blows. Neither of them seemed to remember that someone had been standing between them, and in the chaos, the Kel Dor cub lost his mask.

[That is quite enough!] Tyvokka roared. The other cubs froze, but he ignored them, striding directly towards the wheezing Initiate that was kneeling on the floor, hands over his face. [It will be fine,] Tyvokka said in a much lower rumble, finding the breather and placing it into the cub’s hands. [This is yours.]

“Aw, crap,” Kefe said, eyes wide in startled fear. “Plo, I’m sorry!”

“It’s—it’s fine,” Plo said once his mask was back in place. He did not sound very good, but he was insistent upon bravery. “R—really.”

Tyvokka was not convinced as to Plo’s good health, but he would deal with that in a moment. He turned his attention back to the brawling cubs. [Both of you. To your clan Masters. You will immediately tell them what you have done, and I will hear of it if you do not.]

The boys just stood there, bewildered, until a short girl with messy white hair popped her thumb out of her mouth. “Master Tyvokka told you to go to your teachers and confess, you deaf idiots,” she said in a conversational tone.

[I did not call them idiots,] Tyvokka told her sternly.

She smiled up at him. “Yes, but I bet you were thinking it, Master,” she said, and wandered off after collecting two other watching cubs. The brawling cubs grudgingly went to do as they had been ordered.

 _That one is going to grieve their Master one day, and I will enjoy every moment of it_ , Tyvokka thought of the retreating humanoid girl. Then he gazed down at the Kel Dor, who had collected himself from the floor. Plo was still adjusting the mask, but at least Tyvokka’s senses were no longer screaming about a cub in danger. [You, young Padawan, are going to the Healers.]

Plo tilted his head and managed very good body language to mime puzzlement. Tyvokka sighed. [Of course. You do not yet have an ear for Shyriiwook.]

Tyvokka held out his hand. Plo regarded it thoughtfully before reaching out to take it, letting Tyvokka curl his hand around the cub’s much smaller fingers.

That spark in the Force apparently did not need explanation, not if the way that the cub stared at him was any indication. [The first thing we are going to do,] Tyvokka said, [is to find you a translator droid.]

He was still going to drop a rock on Yoda’s head, but it would be small and relatively harmless. Yoda would no doubt add it to his collection in a silent sign of victory.


	2. Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody knows what to do with a Jedi Master on spice except record the proceedings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked. It had to be done.

Republic Date 5168: 8/8th

Jedi Temple, Coruscant

 

“What…what in the hell is he doing?”

“He is staring at the ceiling,” Qui-Gon said, “and giggling.”

“I can _see_ that,” Micah retorted. “What is he saying, and _why_ is Master Yoda staring at the ceiling?”

“Do you remember the section of classes that the crèche children go through on identifying common drugs, illegal and otherwise, in Republic space?” Qui-Gon asked.

“Yessss—oh, _no.”_ Micah covered his eyes with one hand. “The spice wasn’t neutralized properly, was it?”

“No, it was not.” Qui-Gon watched the ceiling develop another bloom of color when Yoda waved his hand. He really, really wanted the old Master to tell him how in the entire fuck he was doing that, but Yoda was apparently not big on communicating while high. At least, not in Basic.

“What _is_ he saying?” Micah asked again after listening to Yoda’s muttering for a few minutes. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that language before.”

“When I asked her to come and translate it for me, Master Yaddle said it was their language,” Qui-Gon said. “I asked her what he was saying, too. Master Yaddle told me that I didn’t need to know, and she _definitely_ did not want to know, and then left me on Yoda-sitting duty while she went to try and forget everything.”

“Huh.” Micah sat down next to him. “You know, it is kind of fun to watch,” he said after a few more minutes had passed. Yoda had turned the ceiling over his head sixteen different colors. “Also, the quartermaster is going to be pissed if those colors were imprinted on a molecular level.”

“I think it’s pretty,” Qui-Gon said. Then Yoda added a splash of color that was not the slightest bit complimentary. “Never mind.”

“We’re recording this, right?”

“Oh, hell yes. Do you have any idea how hard it is to bribe an ancient troll?” Qui-Gon smiled. “I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity.”

Micah grinned. “Awesome.”


	3. Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, a moment is all it takes for a heart to make up its mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was going to be part of the string of chapters earlier in JotW that featured SW's female cast. However, Adi stopped talking to me in regards to any of it except this.

Republic Date 5171: 9/1st

Coruscant

 

Adi Gallia watches her friend stumble out of the Chamber of Trial. She is the only Padawan who was asked to watch, standing with Knights and Masters as a proud witness. When they announce his success (and she has no doubt he succeeded) Mace Windu will be the youngest humanoid Knight in at least three hundred years.

When Mace walks out of the Chamber, he seems bewildered. Then he realizes that Master T’ra Saa is congratulating him, and Mace responds with his faint almost-smile. Adi grins at him, hearing the proclamation of his Knighting from Master Yoda and Master Su Cham. The light is shining on his dark skin just so, highlighting the steady calm of his brown eyes, and his lean frame—

“Oh,” Adi says. Then her eyes widen. “ _Shit._ ”

She doesn’t realize there is a witness for her words until Master Qui-Gon is standing close, giving her a quizzical look. “What is it?” he asks her in a soft rumble, meant for her ears alone.

Adi is mute in shocked realization, so she does nothing more than stare at Mace. Master Qui-Gon looks at her, glances at Mace, and then returns his gaze to Adi. “ _Oh,_ ” he says. “Oh. Well. This calls for intervention.”

Master Qui-Gon takes her out of the Temple, and sits her down in a restaurant that smells like it has been marinated in grease. Her parents would be appalled. A big Besalisk approaches, bearing enough body fat to make even Master Allak cringe. Dexter Jettster greets Master Qui-Gon like a friend.

Jettster brings her a dish of frozen custard and a bottled ale for Master Qui-Gon. She takes a bite and wants to melt into a pile of bliss.

“Ice cream is a good treatment for the shock of first love,” Master Qui-Gon says.

Adi looks up at him, curious and nervous. “Have you ever been in love?” She’s not certain it’s _love_ she feels for Mace, though she’s willing to admit that it is most certainly lust. Right now, she’ll take all the advice she can get.

He nods, a lopsided smile on his face. Adi adores that expression. It’s one of the things that make Master Qui-Gon seem _real_ to her. He doesn’t just treat her, Mace, little Xan, and all the other kids as mere students, but as people, and she treasures that respect.

“And you don’t…you know, live with her? Or him?” she adds, biology recognition kicking in. Just because she likes nothing but boys doesn’t mean everyone else is the same. “Or hir?”

“He died, a number of years ago.” There is a faint glimmer in Master Qui-Gon’s eyes that Adi recognizes as old grief. She sees it so rarely, it’s almost as much of a shock as her sudden recognition that her favorite crechemate is…well. A man.

“I’m sorry,” Adi says, contrite, and shoves another spoonful of frozen custard into her mouth. The bowl has a faint hum that speaks of mini-refrigeration, so at least her treat will not melt while she hesitates over it, asking silly questions. “I guess you don’t want to talk about…about love, then.”

“Oh, if that were the case, I would have handed you over to Master Yoda,” Master Qui-Gon replies. “He adores first-love stories.”

Adi gives him a disbelieving look. “No way.”

“Way,” Master Qui-Gon confirms, handing her a napkin when her custard threatens to dribble. “Yoda is a huge sap.”

It makes Adi realize, all over again, how young Master Qui-Gon is—that he’s not even officially a Master yet, not until Kimal is Knighted. She feels like an infant in comparison, even though she is a senior Padawan.

Adi looks furtively around the diner to make sure no wandering Temple ears are about. “I just never thought about Mace that way before. I mean, he’s just _Mace._ And then today he looked so…”

“Like so much revealed potential?” Master Qui-Gon asks.

Adi nods, trying not to blush. She is sixteen and seems to blush at every little thing. Her mother has already given her lectures about it, like it’s a response she can control.

Well, she _can_ control it. She will. She’s just still learning to do so. Her mother simply has no concept of what is required to learn in order to succeed.

Perhaps Mother never needed to learn it. Maybe she was born capable of being an implacable rock. That’s a depressing thought.

“It’s a side effect of the Trials, I think.” Master Qui-Gon looks thoughtful. “For so many of us, the Trials peel away that last layer to reveal who we are; or, perhaps, who we are truly capable of becoming.”

“Mace is going to be amazing,” Adi says, and then feels a little bit silly for saying so.

Master Qui-Gon nods, like that isn’t a silly thing to have said at all. “That he will. I expect he’s going to have an interesting Five-Year.”

Adi bites her lip at that reminder. It is a tradition that new Knights spend five years becoming comfortable with who they are. She knows that Mace plans to spend much of that time on his homeworld, learning the old ways of his people.

 _I’ll miss him,_ she thinks, but Master Qui-Gon already knows that.

“Do you think he’ll take a Padawan when he’s done?” That’s also a bit of frustration, because by then Adi will be a Knight—should be, anyway—maybe off on her own Five-Year. Once Mace leaves on his Five-Year, it may be a full decade before they see each other again.

“I would be very surprised if he does not,” Master Qui-Gon answers. “I think he’s already chosen his new Padawan.”

 _Depa,_ Adi thinks. If anyone has the temperament to handle Mace’s stubborn stoicism, it’s Depa, with her teeth-gritting, enduring serenity. The Chalactan girl is practically Adi’s baby sister, for all that they are not related. They got in trouble years ago for pair-bonding well before it was acceptable to do so—not that it had been on purpose. She and Depa Billaba are very well-matched, and the Force had agreed.

“You’re going to Choose Xan, right?” Adi asks, seized by sudden concern. Little six-year-old Xan has had Adi and Mace all this time. Now Mace is going to be gone, and Adi is going to be doing her senior time, finishing her education and preparing for her own Trials. Their little shadow will practically be on his own.

Master Qui-Gon nods. “When it’s time, yes. I don’t see how I can avoid it, Adi. The little beast has practically adopted me already.” His tone is sour, but his eyes are fond, and Adi is reassured.

For a little while, they do nothing but eat and drink in companionable silence. When her bowl is empty, Adi wipes her lips with her napkin, makes sure her hands are clean of sticky residue, and pushes the dish politely to one side. “So! Do you have any advice for me, Master Qui-Gon? Or did you bring me down here only to stuff me full of sweets?”

He smiles. “Most teenagers are satisfied with the sweets.”

“I’m Corellian,” Adi reminds him. “You forgot the booze.”

Master Qui-Gon laughs. “What a shame, Padawan Gallia, as you are underage on Coruscant. If it is advice that you want…”

Adi leans forward. “Well? Stop being Yoda!”

“Keep an open mind.” Master Qui-Gon turns serious. “Not because you are young, but because his is a potential you have only just recognized. If it’s to become anything else, it is time and patience that will tell you truthfully. Do not narrow your sights only upon your friend, not yet. Trust in the Force, and for gods’ sakes, don’t forget the birth control.”

She blushes and slaps a hand over her mouth to restrain a fit of giggles. “I have an implant, thank you very much. Then what?”

“Well, if Mace comes back in five years and you still want to shag him senseless, then by all means,” Master Qui-Gon says, waving his hand. “Make sure he can’t walk when you’re done with him.”

“Oh, gods, _you are awful_ ,” Adi declares, still hiding her grin underneath her hand.

“You wanted advice,” he reminds her.

Adi nods, because yes, she did, but _seriously_. “I notice you didn’t mention anything about waiting until after my Knighting.”

Master Qui-Gon shrugs. “I am becoming famous for my disregard of certain aspects of the Code. If you are not yet a Knight, but think you can manage a relationship without losing focus on your Knighthood? Don’t look for me to judge you, because I won’t. Not unless you fuck up, anyway.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Adi says, but she is unable to keep from smiling.

It takes a great deal of meditation on self-control, and a great deal of willpower, to see Mace off when it’s time for him to depart. Adi smiles, glad as blazes that she is not blushing like a bonfire.

Mace leans back after giving her a long hug, the same sort of embrace he’d just used to squash Xan. “Are you all right?”

Adi nods, still smiling. “I’m just proud of my friend. That’s all.”

“That isn’t the only thing.” Mace spreads his arms. “Did I forget anything? Are you about to skive off and forget to give us a forwarding address? Come on. You know you can tell me.”

Adi considers it. She is almost certain of her feelings, but Master Qui-Gon is right. She’s sixteen and a Padawan. Mace is seventeen, but he’s a Knight. “Oh, I was just thinking that you’re going to be Head of the Order by the time you’re thirty.”

Mace gapes at her. “Did you just—did you just _curse_ me?”

Adi laughs, relieved that he was willing to be distracted. “Get your ass onto that transport, Mace Windu. I’ll still be here in five years.”


	4. Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In another When, Qui-Gon Jinn dies on Naboo, and Raallandirr the Wookiee is never taken as a Padawan.
> 
> This does not stop her from becoming one of Kashyyyk's most revered warriors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in the OtherWhen timeline.

Raallandirr goes to the AgriCorps, which she finds strange. She never did rate well with plants, and even if she's not a gifted mechanic, it probably would have made more sense for her to wind up with the hangar crews. The local AgriCorps Master sits her down one day after one too many plants do the exact opposite of what Rillian was assigned to do and rotates her out to the animal vets as an assistant. She does much better; animals like her, and she understands them. In no time at all she's rising up from mere assistant to medical tech in her own right.

When she has been in the Corps for five years,  her uncles buy out her Corps contract and bring her home to Kashyyyk. The village wisewoman sits Rillian down and tells her of the unrest stirring on the Republic border. A major star system has withdrawn its Republic membership, and she suggests that Rillian return to her early training in the warrior ways.

At first, Rillian refuses. She might not have been a Jedi Padawan, but she'd loved her work for the Order. She does like being home, but it means Rillian lost the chance to rise high in the Corps, in service to both the Jedi and the Republic.

Then more systems withdraw, and the threat of war looms on the horizon. Rillian joins her fellow Wookiee males in battle training, one of the few and honored females to pick up bowcaster and blade. She learns well, performs flawlessly, and becomes leader of her own squad.

When the drama between the Separatists and the Republic boils over and becomes war, Raallandirr has become a respected military commander of Kashyyyk. She leads Wookiees in battle that are hundreds of years her senior. One of her fellow commanders, Chewbacca, often shakes his head and says that Raallandirr is crazy enough to have been a Jedi.

Raallandirr thinks on that sometimes. She can never decide what flaw she holds that convinced the Jedi that she should not be trained as a Knight, but has made peace with it. It no longer matters. She is a leader, she fights well in battle, and her homeworld remains protected.

Kashyyyk’s continued independence enrages the Separatists. When the Battle of Coruscant begins, the Confederacy takes advantage of the Republic military’s distraction and invades her planet. Raallandirr helps to coordinate their defence, growling the entire time. Based on the number of enemies they face, this is no mere attempt at claiming a planet for the Confederacy of Independent Systems. This is subjugation.

There are two Jedi in their region of space, and they are quick to bring their ground forces to Kashyyyk. Quinlan Vos is human and seems to be a bit mad, but he is a capable warrior. He often takes Republic soldiers and Wookiee warriors into the thick of the trees. They sneak into enemy encampments and utterly destroying what they find.

Luminara Unduli is Mirialan, like some of the children in the creche in the Temple. The Jedi Master directs her forces to fight in the open, willing to send a wall of soldiers and firepower against the enemy.

The Jedi Master often looks at Raallandirr as if puzzled by her existence. “You are strong in the Force,” Master Unduli says.

Raallandirr nods. “I am,” she replies, and that is the last thing they discuss. A day later, the last glimpse Raallandirr has of Master Unduli is of her smoking corpse.

The soldiers of the Republic are now the soldiers of an Empire. The Jedi are being purged from the galaxy by the very men who once fought to protect them from harm. It is abhorrent, Raallandirr thinks, an opinion mirrored by all of her brethren.

Months later, between the haze of battles as Raallandirr and her warriors fight back against the Empire, she discovers that Master Vos survived Order Sixty-Six. He is unwell from being away from medical care for too long, but the trees, he says, hid him well. When Master Vos reaches out and places his hand on the nearest branch, smiling his gratitude at the life that sheltered him, Raallandirr nearly howls in mourning.

It is the only time she has ever regretted not being a Jedi.

Through their connections, they are able to find the means to gain a small ship to grant to Master Vos. He has a wife and child to seek out. Raallandirr and her warriors wish him good fortune in his search. She hopes that they are both still alive to be found.

Before the Empire, they were respected warriors, soldiers of the Republic. After Chancellor Palpatine became an Emperor, they are rogues. They are dissenters who are disrupting the peace of the galaxy.

It is such a line of shit. The only thing they want is their home to be their own again. Raallandirr finds no comfort in the knowledge that Kashyyyk is not unique in its struggles.

 

*          *          *          *

 

On the other side of the galaxy, Coruscant’s elite are celebrating the fifteenth year of Imperial reign. Winter, daughter of the House of Organa, codename Targeter, stands amidst the heartless and the foolish and thinks that she has chosen a terrible line of work.

She excels at it, though, even though she is still young. The Alliance needs her.

Winter envies Leia, who is campaigning to gain Alderaan’s seat in the Imperial Senate. Being a senator sounds more useful than being a spy.

(She is wrong, of course. Leia is the spy in full view of the Empire, hiding behind brilliant smiles that have biting edges. Winter’s sister faces Emperor Palpatine in every session of the Senate; Winter has only to leave the room to avoid the odious bastard.)

Thus, she is coifed within an inch of her life, wearing a mask upon her face that no one can see, pretending to be as heartless and foolish as those around her. She remembers everything that is said to her. Some of it is even useful.

Then comes the news that Kashyyyk has been pacified at last. There will be no more Wookiee rebels to violate Imperial law.

Winter swallows hard as she watches the broadcast. She dares not make a sound, but still gasps in horror when a female warrior, a black-and-silver Wookiee, is executed live on the HoloNet. The Wookiee Raallandirr is said to be the leader of the rogue forces. Her death is meant to serve as a warning to any other Wookiee who might think of defying the Empire.

All it serves to do is enrage an entire planet. The Martyr of Kashyyyk inspires Wookiee rebellion, even as the Empire attempts to enslave them all.

The warriors of Kashyyyk who survive the Empire’s attempts to destroy them fight with the Alliance in the battle that finally sees the planet’s liberation after twenty-five long years of occupation. Winter is not there to see that victory, but is told later that the Wookiees sang of the Martyr, free to celebrate her and mourn her death at last.


	5. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How it hurts me to know that I will never be able to give you everything I have." -Henry Rollins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in the OtherWhen timeline, just after Tahl's death and the Ord Mantell debacle regarding her murderer, Os Balog.

Republic Date 5198: 7/6th

 Jedi Temple, Coruscant

 

Qui-Gon picked up the comm from his table when it signaled for his attention, thumbing it on. “Jinn.”

“Qui-Gon.” Mace sounded like his typically grim self. “I need to speak with you. Meet me in my quarters, please.”

He tried not to make a disgruntled face. If it was the conversation he suspected, he was _not_ looking forward to it. “Very well. When?”

“Now, if you aren’t busy.”

Qui-Gon glanced over at Obi-Wan. His Padawan was seated in a relaxed slouch on the sofa, bundled in blankets and embraced by a gentle cloud created by a small, portable humidifier. Obi-Wan was staring at him in concern, one eyebrow raised in silent query.

“I am busy watching my Padawan steam the remnants of pneumonia from his lungs while we are also both watching horrific HoloNet programming, Mace. I believe I can spare you the time as long as you don’t insist upon it being all night.”

“That depends on you, Qui-Gon.” Mace ended the call without any further words spoken. Typical.

“You don’t want to go, huh?” Obi-Wan asked in a raspy voice. Despite the lingering effects of his brief flirtation with pneumonia, it was still easy to hear the wry humor in his words.

Qui-Gon shook his head. “Not so much, but a delay will only make it worse. Each Councilor has taken their turn at asking prying questions. It wouldn’t be fair to leave Mace to suffer his curiosity.”

Obi-Wan laughed, a sound cut short when it turned into a racketing cough. “No, we can’t possibly have that. I think the Reconciliation Council was kinder, Master. At least they just wanted to ask you those prying questions all at the same time.”

“Indeed.” Qui-Gon smiled, gazing at his Padawan. Obi-Wan’s hair was damp at the ends from the humidifier, hanging in strands that were now too long to conform to Obi-Wan’s strict standards regarding his traditional Padawan haircut. He was still a bit too pale, with faint smudges under his eyes, but his eyes were shining with both humor and health—if also intent watchfulness.

“You’re staring at me,” Obi-Wan said testily. “What is it? Am I dripping horribleness everywhere and unaware of it?”

“No. You need a haircut,” Qui-Gon forced himself to say with a teasing lilt, though he privately thought the longer hair was fetching. “When the Healers insist you are no longer required to sit in a medicated vapor cloud, perhaps you could attend to it.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “Of course, Master. Go allow yourself to be tortured by Master Windu to thus further the reassurance that you are not going to snap and murder everyone tomorrow. My vapor cloud and I will both be here when you return.”

“Of course.” Qui-Gon stood to retrieve his boots and cloak, using the cover of putting them on to keep his gaze on Obi-Wan without being so obvious.

What would Skae say of Obi-Wan and his feelings for Qui-Gon, were Skae still alive and here to view Obi-Wan for himself?

Qui-Gon bit back another smile, one he didn’t have the heart to explain. Skae Antivar had been rather flexible in regards to feelings. He would probably be wondering what the hell Qui-Gon thought he was waiting for. He would be the first to insist that Qui-Gon could certainly handle the Padawan attachment problem—he’d done so before.

 _But I was a younger person then, Skae,_ Qui-Gon thought to himself, feeling the weight of so much grief and guilt. _I was not yet broken by your loss, and by all of the losses that came after._

Mace greeted him at the door to his quarters without cloak or boots on. Qui-Gon breathed a quiet sigh of relief; Mace had signaled that this was an informal interview, not something that would be placed on Council record. He hung his cloak and left his boots by the door.

“Tea?” Mace asked.

Qui-Gon thought about it. “No, thank you.” He wandered over to Mace’s tall window. Mace had chosen his quarters specifically for its high windows which lacked balconies, claiming he had no need to sit outside and listen to Coruscant’s traffic.

Mace sat down in one of his own chairs, settling himself comfortably. “I need to speak to you regarding Obi-Wan.”

Qui-Gon was surprised by that. “Not Os Balog, or myself?”

“Those are the reasons _why_ it needs to be discussed,” Mace responded. “I’ve heard you and Obi-Wan discuss everything that began with New Apsolon and ended on Ord Mantell. I’ve read the reports from the Healers. I’ve heard the words of the Reconciliation Council. I’ve…” he hesitated. “I’ve suffered my way through the reports from the Healers regarding Tahl’s autopsy.”

Qui-Gon clenched his jaw. “And?”

Mace took note of Qui-Gon’s tension, but continued speaking. “Obi-Wan is ready to be Knighted, Qui-Gon. As far as the Council is concerned, your Padawan just completed his Trials.”

“I am very much aware of that, Mace,” Qui-Gon said, crossing his arms and leaning against the window. The view did not please him, but at the moment he preferred it to Mace’s too-sober visage. “I’m surprised you didn’t convene the Council and force the matter.”

“First, I wanted to know why you hadn’t declared for him yourself,” Mace replied.

Qui-Gon gave up on the window, settling down on Mace’s low sofa and resting his elbows on his knees. “You and I are both aware that I have often needed Obi-Wan far more than he has needed me.”

Mace sat down in the chair across from him. “He is very capable, yes. However, as the two of you still shared a teaching relationship, your role reversal has not been much of a concern.”

Qui-Gon chuckled without humor. “After all that’s happened in the last year—for fuck’s sake, Mace, _I’m_ not ready to let him go. I think I would quite honestly fall apart. Micah and Tahl…” He drew in a hitched breath.

“They were your support system,” Mace said. “Micah may have mentioned it, once,” he admitted when Qui-Gon gave him a sharp look.

“That they were.” Qui-Gon hesitated before giving Mace another of his long-held secrets. “The only thing keeping my shields and psyche from being a slaughtered mess is the training of long years, and a long-standing training bond with a meddling troll.”

Mace raised an eyebrow. “Yoda?”

“Dooku could not offer the support a Padawan buried in the Living Force needed,” Qui-Gon answered.

Mace didn’t seem surprised by that. “I’m so glad it was Sifo-Dyas on the Council and not Dooku. It’s difficult enough to deal with that man when he is holed up out on the Outer Rim.”

Qui-Gon nodded. “Sifo-Dyas will recover from his injuries, yes?” Qui-Gon had been on a mad hunt for a murderer when Sifo-Dyas was involved in a ship crash—literally, a mad hunt. Qui-Gon couldn’t remember half of what was done until Obi-Wan began filling in the blanks.

Mace allowed the temporary digression. “Will he live? Certainly. Will he be happy about it?” He shook his head. “This was his second such incident in a decade, Qui-Gon, even if neither was his fault. The Healers are worried that Sifo-Dyas didn’t receive the right treatments in time to prevent aggravation to his older injuries. They suspect he will always be in pain. Sifo-Dyas has responded accordingly and resigned from the Council.”

Qui-Gon felt a brief moment of frustration intermixed with sympathy. He was fond of Sifo-Dyas for being one of the few people who inspired Dooku to act like less of a complete prick. “I am sorry to hear that, and not only because he will no longer be in a Council chamber to tell Dooku to please be quiet.”

“I’m going to miss that, too,” Mace muttered. “Back to the point, Qui-Gon. Your current Padawan’s Knighting?”

Qui-Gon chose to be blunt. “I’m not capable of severing a training bond right now, not after losing two well-established pairbonds.”

“Yes, that is also a good reason.” Mace frowned. “What else?”

“You must also consider that Obi-Wan will try to break your face with his fists if you Knight him and send him on a Five-Year right now,” Qui-Gon said dryly. “Obi-Wan is still eying me when he thinks I’m not looking. It’s like having an extremely proper and temperamental babysitter.”

“You deserve it,” Mace replied with a brief smile. “Hmm. I haven’t actually been punched in a while,” he mused.

“Mace. No.” Not unless Qui-Gon had advance warning and a recording device.

“And then there is Xanatos’s damage to consider,” Mace pointed out in an unintentionally vicious rebuttal.

Qui-Gon still winced out of habit. “A little, still. Some days. Not as much as you might believe. Obi-Wan has helped a great deal with that, even though he never consciously attempted to.”

It always warmed his heart when he managed to astonish the unflappable Harun Kal. Mace’s eyes widened. “You’re talking about Lifebond potential.”

Qui-Gon smiled, an expression that felt equal parts wry and bitter. “I am. Tahl figured it out long before I even noticed.”

“Most of us figured out that your Padawan had his eye on you for reasons not entirely related to baby-sitting a crazy old fool,” Mace teased with a grin. “Obi-Wan has been in love with you for over a year now. Perhaps two or three, if Micah’s gossiping biddy conversations during the Yinchorri Conflict were correct.”

 _Micah, you really would have spent the entirety of a horrific mission keeping everyone’s spirits up with terrible jokes and gossip._ The thought didn’t hurt nearly as much as it would have a mere week previous. Micah Giett had never held any illusions about his life, and always laughed off the idea of dying of old age.

Tahl was the one they both had decided, long ago, would be the one to outlive them. Qui-Gon was still angry that they had been so wrong.

“I’m aware of Obi-Wan’s feelings,” Qui-Gon snapped when he realized Mace still awaited a response. “Though my awareness of that fact is very, very recent.”

Mace was unmoved by the display of temper. “You need to meditate in the worst fucking way, Qui-Gon. I would send you and Obi-Wan on retreat if I could get away with it, but the truth is that we need you both on the mission roster right now, and we need it badly.”

Qui-Gon waved his hand, dismissing the idea of a retreat. He didn’t think that sort of solitude would be good for either of them, anyway. “I know.”

“Tell me what you want to do, Qui-Gon.” Mace settled back in his chair. “Tell me how to handle your situation.”

“You would trust my judgment on that?” Qui-Gon asked, curious.

Mace raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re going to be a fucking idiot and go running off to find another situation which proves to me that I cannot? Yes.”

Qui-Gon mimicked him, sitting back on the couch and allowing his legs the opportunity to stretch. “Give me a year, Mace. If the Council is so certain that he’s ready for Knighthood, treat us like a Knighted pair. Up the ante. Give us the missions meant for regular teams.”

“We do that _now,_ ” Mace said, surprising him. “We’d actually have to jump the pair of you up to the Mastery rotations.”

“Damn,” Qui-Gon breathed, amazed. He shouldn’t have been so surprised. Aside from their personal dramas, hadn’t their missions almost always fallen into the success column rather than failure? He’d never worked so cleanly, so smoothly, with anyone in his life—not with Dooku, or Tahl, or even Micah.

“I am so very proud of him,” Qui-Gon said with complete sincerity.

“As are we,” Mace echoed, equally sincere. “Now, what are you going to do about that Lifebond potential?”

“Not a thing,” Qui-Gon answered at once. “No, and don’t give me that look, Mace Windu. Not while he’s still a Padawan. I won’t have it. We need to learn to work together again, and romantic entanglements will _not_ help the situation.”

No, he definitely wasn’t ready for romantic thoughts again. It was far too late, but Qui-Gon realized now that he and Tahl had both gravitated towards each other not out of a desire for romantic partnership, but out of mutual grief for the missing part of their triad. “Besides, I do need…time…to come to terms with the idea. Aside from myself and Tahl, do you know when my last relationship was?”

Mace shook his head. “You keep a lot to yourself.”

“I hadn’t been in an actual relationship since Skae died.” Qui-Gon was heavily aware that he sounded bitter. It was with good reason; most of his current contemporaries in the Order had no idea Skae Antivar Mar had ever existed. There had been a few casual flings since then, but nothing that shared the same, early intensity he’d enjoyed with Skae.

“I don’t think it will take much time for the two of you to readjust,” Mace said, politely changing the subject. “Don’t worry about it. Obi-Wan is such a stickler for the Code that he would be horrified if anyone suggested anything different.”

That was true enough. Qui-Gon had often overheard Obi-Wan chanting of dire things regarding the Code under his breath, usually the bit about Padawan attachments. He just hadn’t been aware that _he_ had been the object of his Padawan’s Code-enforced frustration.

“If he’s still willing to pursue me when he’s Knighted, then…then we’ll talk,” Qui-Gon said, even though the idea both thrilled and terrified him.

Mace narrowed his eyes. “What are you afraid of, Qui-Gon?”

Qui-Gon didn’t bother to lie. “I’m afraid of losing him.”

“When an attachment brings fear instead of peace, you know that’s a problem,” Mace reminded him.

As if he needed the reminder. “I know what I can and cannot cope with, Mace. If I am ever in the position of being able to choose between my death or his, I will choose mine.”

Qui-Gon met Mace’s concerned brown eyes. “I swore to Obi-Wan that he would be a Jedi, my friend. No matter what else fate might have in store, no matter his feelings, and no matter mine…that is the one thing I will not allow to be taken from him.”

When Qui-Gon returned to their shared quarters, Obi-Wan was, as promised, exactly where Qui-Gon had last seen him. Qui-Gon removed his cloak and boots once more, but this time stripped off his belt as well. He had absolutely no plans to go anywhere else in the Temple tonight.

Obi-Wan was looking at the HoloNet projection with interest, though his eyes were glassy from a new round of the harsh antibiotics the Healers had insisted he take. “What have you found that is so interesting?” Qui-Gon asks.

“One of the championship Sabacc games is being broadcasted from Corellia,” Obi-Wan answered. He glanced over at Qui-Gon. “I see you survived the interrogation. Was it terrible?”

Qui-Gon managed to smile. “No. It was nothing unexpected, really, and the matter is considered settled.”

“Good.” Obi-Wan gave the empty sofa cushion next to him a demanding pat. “Sit down here and watch this woman absolutely destroy everyone she plays against.”

Qui-Gon snorted and sat down as instructed. The woman in question was marked as a Corellian native named Ingenia Pierell, and her gaze was a mask of sparkling amusement. “Psychology, Padawan?”

Obi-Wan’s smile was sly. “That’s what the entire game is about.”

 _Yes, it is,_ Qui-Gon thought. Then he put it all aside—Lifebond potential, his awareness of Obi-Wan’s depth of feeling, his own tangled thoughts on the matter—all of it. “Tell me her strategy, then.”

Qui-Gon sat next to his Padawan, listening to Obi-Wan’s raspy voice narrate the Sabacc rounds in a way that the actual announcer couldn’t hope to compete with. Obi-Wan was a brilliant strategist, but it was not often the skill could be applied to something so mundane—to something that they did merely because it was entertaining.

_My Padawan. How I wish that you will see so many more days such as these._


	6. Learner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinlan Vos privately thinks his Master is out of his mind. Tholme never disputes this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is before Waking Dream, these events are valid for both timelines. Takes place in 5193.

He’s seventeen Standard when Tholme tells him, “I'm probably submitting you for your Trials next year.”

Quinlan, in the middle of waking up from their week-long bad crawl through Hutt space, doesn't process this at first. When he does, he gives Tholme a blank stare and asks if him if he's had too much spice.

Tholme just gives him one of his dark grins that mean hell in the salle later. “You're almost ready, kid. You and I have spent so much time walking through the galaxy's drek that there's not a lot of shine left on you, and that's about when it's time to dump a Padawan into the Chamber and see what comes out.”

“And if I come out bawling and weeping?”

Tholme shrugs. “That doesn't necessarily mean you've failed. You won't be the first young Knight, Quinlan, and you won't be the last. I imagine Kenobi will be next on that list.”

“Who's Kenobi?” Quinlan asks, though he thinks he remembers the name. Short kid, tied up in that Xanatos shit that happened a couple of years ago.

Quinlan meets Kenobi officially when they all ship out for the Stark negotiations. Quinlan thinks this many Jedi for a trade negotiation is overkill, but Master Tyvokka doesn't, so he shrugs and rolls with it. Kenobi is short, yeah, but he's two years younger than Quinlan, so he's got time to grow. Red hair, funny eyes, nice smile.

They shake hands, and Kenobi's smile widens a bit more, just for Quinlan. His eyes don't seem to settle on any particular color, but they sparkle, and there's something really intriguing there.

Well. Quinlan hadn't realized he was interested in guys, but hey, if he's going to start noticing men, the red-headed kid is a nice place to start. That could be fun to pursue in a couple of years, when Kenobi has grown out of the arms-and-legs phase.

When things go to hell (Good call, Master Tyvokka) Quinlan ends up fighting back to back with Kenobi. At first, Quinlan thinks he's going to be protecting the younger Padawan, which is what usually happens when there's a shootout and he's on shepherding duty for the younger set.

Wrong. Kenobi keeps up with Quinlan and then some, clearing space in the melee with what looks like effortless swings of his lightsaber.

“Damn, Kenobi!” Quinlan says at one point, when they've broken free and joined up with Tholme and Plo Koon. He doesn't see the kid's Master anywhere, but Jinn has a rep for lone wolf bad-assery, so Quinlan's not worried. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Would you like the honest answer, or the really sarcastic answer?” the kid returns.

Quinlan grins. “The first one.”

“Spar with Qui-Gon Jinn for one round, then come back and ask me that question again,” Kenobi says, and then turns his attention back to deflecting blaster bolts.

When the Stark Hyperspace War ends, Tyvokka is dead, Plo Koon is on the Council, Quinlan is missing a few braids, and Tholme is in a surly mood that not even Quinlan can figure out how to fix. He decides to pursue Kenobi's suggestion, and asks Master Jinn for a round of sparring.

It's a shock, how utterly and _effortlessly_ Jinn kicks Quinlan's ass. He really thought he'd been doing well on the lightsaber front. No, he was not, and he is going to have words with his Master.

When it's over and Quinlan has been summarily beaten into the mats, he gives Master Jinn a faint squeak and bow before all but crawling over to the bleachers. Kenobi is waiting for him with a towel and a sympathetic look.

“You poor, poor bastard,” Quinlan gasps after he's soaked his head in water and buried his face in the towel. He may or may not be lying on the bench like a beached and dying whale.

“You did ask,” Kenobi says.

“Fuck you, man,” Quinlan retorts, and the kid laughs.

Quinlan refuses to remove the towel from his face when he senses Tholme approach. His Master sits down next to him on the bench, radiating smugness.

“I hate you.”

Tholme chuckles. “Master Jinn is one of the best duelists in the entire Order, if not _the_ best. You are not lacking skill, Padawan. You are simply not meant to be that sort of fighter.”

“Thank the Force for that!” Quinlan spits back, though the towel is muffling his voice. “And you still think I’m ready for the Trials?”

Tholme pats the towel so that Quinlan is patted on the face with sweaty cloth. “Being a Jedi is about far more than swinging a lightsaber, Padawan.”

Quinlan scowls beneath his towel. Lightsabers keep you alive. That’s been a proven fact for the entirety of his apprenticeship. “And what am I going to do if I go out there and find some random nutjob who’s better with a lightsaber than I am?”

“That is so unlikely as to be all but impossible, Padawan,” Tholme replies.

Somehow, Quinlan does not feel reassured.


	7. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan Kenobi turns seventeen while on a mission with his partner, which is pretty much business as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in the main timeline again! Takes place 8 months after Waking Dream.

Republic Date 5196: 1/11th

Tharin Sector, Outer Rim Territories

 

Turning seventeen Standard made Obi-Wan’s life a little bit easier, if only because he was now in the range of acceptable early human Knightings. He wasn’t yet Coruscant legal, or Core legal, but Mace Windu had begun at this age, as had Thracia Cho Leem.

Not that Obi-Wan was on Coruscant to celebrate his birthday. He shoved his charge down into a trench as an older model of fighter roared overhead, dropping primitive cluster bombs across the landscape. Dirt flew, his ears rang, and his Weequay companion swore in one of the species’ few existing dialects that weren’t based directly on pheromone communication.

“They are getting bolder, yes,” Obi-Wan replied, wiping his face clean as best he could. “Your brother must really want you dead.”

Chauntanna Wuq, clan matriarch and cousin to Jedi Master Tet Wuq, uttered a harsh laugh. [Chehn na.]

“No, they will not be killing either of us today.” Obi-Wan took her hand and helped to pull the older woman from the trench, glancing around. The fields were a destroyed mess; flames were still jetting upwards from piles of what had once been gathered hay.

Wuq snorted, her response entirely pheromone-based. He couldn’t even smell most of it, but he could guess at her meaning. “Stay behind me, do as I say, and I’ll have you home in time to beat the stuffing out of your brother for trying to assassinate you.”

[Huuffthcannh reesfft akkahn?]

Obi-Wan eyed her, amused. “Well, killing him might be satisfying, but long-term imprisonment does have positive attributes.”

Wuq patted his shoulder, beaming, before they moved along. The deposed leader had not been impressed with being granted a seeming child bodyguard, but it had been three days since then, and they were still alive. Now Obi-Wan suspected that she just wanted to adopt him, which would come with its own slew of difficulties.

Qui-Gon finally caught up to him when they converged on the capital. _You’re late,_ Obi-Wan sent, and then winced as Wuq shrieked at her brother and stomped her foot down on his groin.

 _Traveling with two upset, violence-prone toddlers is not to my taste at all,_ Qui-Gon replied, sounding tired.

 _At least you found them._ Tathaq Wuq had no qualms about executing family members in order to gain full control of their clan’s leadership. His timing, however, had not been well-thought-out, considering he’d waited until after Jedi mediators had arrived to begin his coup.

 _Probably thought he could kill the pair of us and add it to his succession claim,_ Qui-Gon said.

Obi-Wan nodded, considering it fortunate that Master Wuq had not been available to help mediate the clan’s latest squabble. Tet and Chauntanna were of similar mindsets when it came to cowards and assassination, and the Wuq clan did not need yet _another_ war.

Qui-Gon put both children down on the floor, where they stared up at their mother in shock. “Lady Wuq, I believe these belong to you.”

Chauntanna quit stomping on her foolish, unfortunate sibling, and went straight to her children, gathering them up and emitting not sound, but a near-constant stream of shifting pheromone language. At least Obi-Wan assumed so, given that there was some obvious communication occurring between the three.

[Jhach thu,] Wuq said to Qui-Gon, after the children had reassured their mother as to their safety.

“You’re welcome,” Qui-Gon replied, giving her a Jedi’s half-bow that did nothing to disguise his exhaustion.

_Are you all right?_

Qui-Gon glanced at Obi-Wan as Lady Wuq’s reassembled guards began the process of removing the bleeding traitor from the clan’s ruling chamber. _Tired. Bloody. Bruises in unfortunate places, but I’ll be fine._ Then he smiled. _Happy birthday, Obi-Wan._

Obi-Wan fought against a smile and lost. _Thank you. I would very much like the next one to be less violent._

 _It does seem to be a tradition, doesn’t it?_ Qui-Gon bowed over Lady Wuq’s hand when she held it out, imperious once more with her children and her guard standing with her.

Chauntanna gave them both genuine smiles of thanks, and then her expression turned chill. [Yahammank tihr fwollathk, Jeedai.]

“Of course.” Qui-Gon bowed again; Obi-Wan copied him. His back twinged, reminding him that he’d fallen hard two days ago and probably had a great mess of bruises patterned along his spine. “We have transport, and can leave immediately.”

Lady Wuq nodded and turned away, a clear dismissal. Obi-Wan restrained a sigh and followed after his partner. He had never figured out if he enjoyed the fact that the Weequay ejected their assistance once said help was no longer required, or if it irritated him—most of those the Jedi served would at least offer them use of a damned bathtub first.

“Nothing but sonics on the _Atomic Castoff_ ,” Qui-Gon muttered as they elbowed their way past the crowds that were starting to re-flood the capital.

“Whoever named that ship was obviously not considering long-term implications,” Obi-Wan agreed. “I vote that once we leave Sriluur, we stop at the first waystation on the line and raid their facilities.”

Qui-Gon glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “Are we not supposed to be telling the Council that this mini-Weequay insurrection has been dealt with?”

“We either tell them after we shower off four days of grime, or we can go straight home and then subject them to said grime.” Obi-Wan paused. “Though, that _is_ tempting.”

“Very.” Qui-Gon leaned his head against the side of their transport, waiting as the ramp lowered with a slow, unhappy whine. “I don’t think I’m up for Council-baiting right now. We can save that for the next time they send us out to a complete pit.”

The waystation was Obi-Wan’s best idea in at least three weeks. It was worth handing over the credits to gain access to unlimited hot water, with berths that held both showers and soaking tubs. When Qui-Gon hesitated, Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and paid for Qui-Gon to get the same option.

“It’s your birthday,” Qui-Gon tried to protest. His head was hanging halfway down to his chest, shoulders bowed from exhaustion. “Dear gods, this is why I am firm in my stance that Padawans should be at least ten Standard.”

“You can give me a rock later,” Obi-Wan insisted, giving Qui-Gon a gentle shove in the correct direction. “Go. Bask in water that is not toxic to humans.”

Qui-Gon gave up and disappeared into his berth. Obi-Wan waited a moment, making sure his partner was going to _stay put_ , before heading into his own.

He stripped off his clothes and found a beetle wriggling around in one of his robe pockets. Obi-Wan shook his head and set the poor creature aside before stuffing all of his clothes into the sonic wash built into the wall. Then he showered off days of grime and soil that was not exactly safe for humans to roll around in. His skin was bright red and blotchy from multiple minor acid burns.

He filled the tub, let the beetle trundle off to explore the wet shower area, and then sank into steaming water until he was fully submerged. His skin announced that acid was terrible; his bruises announced that hot water was fabulous and he was an idiot for not finding such absolute debauchery sooner.

The only thing that could have made things better was a bottle of good brandy, but he wasn’t legal in this sector of space. It was moments like these that made him consider the benefits of purchasing a very good false identification card.

Then again, there was something to be said for certainty and poise.

Obi-Wan found the waystation’s humanoid-catering bar, took a seat, and put down twice the amount of credits needed to obtain a decent shot of brandy. No Corellian stock here, but Zellarios’s unique brew was an adequate replacement.

The Gand bartender looked down at the credits, then back up at Obi-Wan. “You got any identification, Padawan?” he asked.

Obi-Wan sighed and let his lightsaber drop down onto the countertop with a muted _thunk._ “It’s Knight, actually.”

The Gand snickered at him. “You should try carrying around something smaller, Sir Knight. That’s got to be inconvenient, hauling that thing out every time you make a run through Customs.”

Obi-Wan smiled at the bartender. “But it’s so effective.”

The Gand laughed and got him the requested brandy which was, by a minor miracle, not watered down in the slightest. “Don’t get drunk at my bar, Jedi.”

Obi-Wan raised his glass in thanks. “It won’t be a problem.”

He was on a second shot when a green-scaled hand dropped over his glass, keeping Obi-Wan from lifting it. Obi-Wan glanced up at the Falleen male, who was staring down at Obi-Wan with a smirk on his face.

“Can I help you with something?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Just wondering what a snot-nosed youngling like you was doing in our bar,” the Falleen replied, grinning. “Brandy seems a bit rough for you.”

“It is my birthday, and I will drink what I like, thank you very much.”

“Birthday, huh?” The Falleen lifted his hand from the glass and crossed his arms as he was joined by two other companions. All three were dressed similarly, a bit battered around the edges, and armed to the teeth.

Pirates. Great.

“How old are you, Padawan? Twelve?” the Falleen’s human companion asked.

Obi-Wan downed the brandy, in case it was the last chance he was going to get for the evening. “Old enough to be a Jedi Knight.”

“You are far too baby-faced to be a Knight,” the Rodian declared.

 _Don’t remind me,_ Obi-Wan thought sourly. “Unfortunately for all of us, I am. Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he said, holding out his hand to the Falleen.

The Falleen gave him another smirk and shook Obi-Wan’s hand, squeezing tight in a ridiculous threat display. “I’m Rhessin. This is Boomer—” the Rodian waved— “and this is Kheff.”

Kheff was staring at Obi-Wan. “Fucking Agnata,” he spat. “The kid _is_ a Knight.”

Obi-Wan tried not to wince. “Please don’t tell me that those rumors made it out this far.”

“Nah, I was there,” Kheff said. “Fuck it. Let’s buy the birthday boy a drink, Rhessin.”

Rhessin shook his head. “He’s already had two. I doubt he could handle more.”

Obi-Wan offered Rhessin a bright-eyed smile. It had been far too long since he’d been able to indulge in mischief, and he was not going to pass up the opportunity. “Those were merely the warm-up. Or is liquor so potent that a single shot is enough to obliterate your sobriety?”

Boomer laughed while Rhessin scowled at Obi-Wan. “Kid, you have no idea who you’re challenging.”

“No, I don’t.” Obi-Wan gave him a curious look. “You can’t be that famous if I’ve never heard of you.”

“Are you trying to start a fight, youngling Knight?” Rhessin hissed. There was a faint scent in the air, as if the Falleen’s pheromones were escaping his control.

“Actually, I’m wondering if the three of you would be willing to take a wager. I know that I can outdrink the three of you, and you think you can do the same to me. Let’s see who’s right.”

Rhessin eyed the bartender, who was wiping down the countertop while pretending not to be listening. “The three of us against you? Youngling Jedi, I don’t actually want you to die of alcohol poisoning.”

“I know my limits, thanks,” Obi-Wan said dryly.

Rhessin exchanged looks with Boomer and Kheff. “Winners get the glory?”

Obi-Wan smiled. “Loser pays the bar tab.”

“Deal,” Rhessin said, striking Obi-Wan’s palm with his closed fist when Obi-Wan offered it. He signaled the barkeep, who rolled his eyes with an air of long-suffering before returning with the brandy and three more glasses. “I always wanted to outdrink a Jedi.”

Kheff was shaking his head. “You are going to regret your existence when you wake up tomorrow, Jedi.”

Obi-Wan kept the smile on his face, but it was a close thing. _I regret my existence for far more valid reasons than that._

 

*    *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon hadn’t meant to fall asleep before showering, but toddlers were tiring, especially when said toddlers were radiating panic while Qui-Gon slogged through mud and avoided bombing runs. He woke with a start a few hours after he’d sat down on the berth’s less than ample bunk, blinking grit and confusion from his eyes before sitting up.

The shower helped clear his head, and also reminded him that Weequay soil was not tolerant of thinner-skinned lifeforms. He imagined Obi-Wan had fared worse.

Clean clothes were a gods-sent fucking miracle, he thought, and then smiled. A few more hours’ sleep might not be amiss.

It was long-standing habit to check on his Padawan—his partner—when they weren’t in the Temple. _Obi-Wan?_

 _Hmm?_ Obi-Wan sounded distracted, and there was a rare sensation coming through the pair-bond, something so foreign in his relations with the young man that it took Qui-Gon a few moments to recognize it. Lassitude. Relaxation.

Qui-Gon frowned. _What are you doing?_

Obi-Wan’s response was laced with smugness. _Winning._

Qui-Gon sighed and reached for his boots. _Where are you?_

_Bar on the second deck._

_Bar,_ Qui-Gon repeated, feeling both of his eyebrows rise. His partner was still underage in this region of space. Now he had to know what was going on, if only for his curiosity not to drive him mad.

He found the bar easily enough, which was only half-lit in deference to the station’s observed late hour. Obi-Wan was seated at the counter, conversing with a Gand bartender. There was a sparkling pyramid of used shot glasses on the countertop in front of his partner, far more than Qui-Gon was comfortable seeing.

There were also three men sleeping on the floor, one of whom was emitting the ratcheting snore of a sopping drunk.

Qui-Gon approached and looked down at his Padawan. His face was red-blotched, either from the acidic soil or the alcohol. Possibly both. “What did you do?”

“Why do you assume I did something?” Obi-Wan asked, smiling up at him. His eyes were glittering with good humor—or perhaps Qui-Gon should label that complete devilment.

Qui-Gon made a point of looking at the three men on the floor. The sweet stench of alcohol was rising from them like a cloud.

Obi-Wan shrugged, watching the bartender dismantle the pile of shot glasses. “They lost.”

“Lost what? Their dignity?”

The bartender laughed. “Master Jedi, I just watched this kid drink those three idiots under the table. Dignity be damned. They’re going to be vomiting up their own insides come morning. Serves them right for trying to outdrink a Jedi that can do that trick with the biological filtering.”

Obi-Wan steepled his hands together and rested his chin on his fingertips. “I absolutely did not filter out anything, Gerrome.”

The bartender stopped what he was doing and stared at Obi-Wan. “Then how in the hell are you still upright?”

“Talent, tenacity, and stubbornness,” Obi-Wan replied, glancing up at Qui-Gon again. “What?”

Qui-Gon had to take a breath. “My apologies. I am resisting the urge to throttle you, or perhaps rush you to the station’s medical center to ensure that my partner does not _die_.”

Obi-Wan blinked at him, nonplussed. “Don’t be ridiculous; I’m fine. What’s the tab, Gerrome?”

Gerrome chuckled. “One thousand, three hundred eighteen credits.”

Obi-Wan’s smile was all teeth. “Well, I do hope they have the means to pay it.” He reached into his robe pocket and sat a stack of credits down on the bar. Qui-Gon counted at least three hundred credits before the bartender whisked the pile away.

“Thanks for the tip, Jedi,” Gerrome said. “You and your tall Master here may want to be gone before those three wake up, though. They have friends with itchy trigger fingers.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Don’t they all.”

Qui-Gon waited, hyper-alert, as Obi-Wan stood up. He watched as his young partner resettled his tunics and robe before becoming aware of Qui-Gon’s eyes on him.

Obi-Wan frowned at him. “Seriously, what is it?”

“I’m still trying to figure out how you’re still upright, let alone coherent,” Qui-Gon replied honestly.

Obi-Wan seemed amused by that. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I am _really_ not sober.”

“I gathered that.” Qui-Gon gestured for Obi-Wan to precede him from the bar. “Loser pays the tab?” he asked, trying to pretend that this was something approaching normal. It had been an interesting eight months, this partnership, but Obi-Wan still managed to do things that had so little context as to be utterly unpredictable.

“It’s my birthday.” Obi-Wan glanced at the chrono mounted on the wall, a too-bright light declaring the time and date. “Or it was. You’re not supposed to buy your own drinks on your birthday.”

“Ah.” Qui-Gon bit back a smile. “And why is that?”

Obi-Wan paused mid-step. “Because…reasons? I don’t know, it just sounds proper. I’m sure it’s an actual tradition somewhere.”

“Indeed.” Qui-Gon sighed and shook his head. “I cannot compete with a thousand-credit bar tab, Obi-Wan, but if you’re ready to go home, I can at least present something that will not try to eat you or poison you.”

Obi-Wan turned to him with a smile. “Qui-Gon, I—” he hesitated, part of the bright light in his eyes dimming in a way that made Qui-Gon’s chest hurt. “Yes. Home sounds like an excellent idea.”

Qui-Gon followed his partner, whose steps were as steady as a sober man’s, and tried in vain to figure out what he had just done wrong. Not that he was going to leave it that way; Obi-Wan had a tendency to fall into depressive spells that could last for days if not immediately distracted. “Did you just spend a stipend of several months on a bar tab?”

“No, I spent it on a bartender’s tip,” Obi-Wan countered.

“You don’t seem concerned about the money,” Qui-Gon said, curious.

“It isn’t as if I am now penniless.”

Qui-Gon smiled. “Really? I didn’t think your savings account prior to Taro Tre had been anything to speak of.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan seemed amused. “It wasn’t.”

Qui-Gon waited, but it was clear that Obi-Wan wasn’t going to explain the matter without prompting. “Then how have you been supplementing it enough to toss around credits the way you’ve done so today?”

“Do you play Sabacc, Qui-Gon?”

He tried not to wince. “I went through an unfortunate gambling streak during my Five-Year, and have since refused to touch a Sabacc deck unless I’ve no choice. Why—oh. Obi-Wan!”

When Obi-Wan glanced up at Qui-Gon, he was grinning. “What?”

Qui-Gon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did I not manage to instill in you a sense of the perils of gambling?”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Qui-Gon Jinn, if I sit down at a Sabacc table, I am _not_ gambling. I am _winning_.”

 _Not your Padawan anymore_ , Qui-Gon reminded himself, before he could open his mouth and say something entirely inappropriate. “Why do you find it necessary to _win_ at Sabacc for credits, then?”

“Because on Tatooine, I had plenty of credits right up until the moment that I didn’t,” Obi-Wan said. The grin had vanished, but at least Qui-Gon was seeing contemplation on the young man’s face rather than melancholy. “My accounts were off-world, and after the first few years, a new policy was enacted that meant I could not access those accounts without drawing a great deal of very much unwanted attention—the sort of attention that could have gotten myself and many others killed.”

“Hutts,” Qui-Gon surmised.

Obi-Wan paused. “Among others,” he conceded, one hint among many that was eventually going to drive Qui-Gon mad. By Obi-Wan’s own admission, he knew that the Order went into hiding at some point in that mysterious future, but not _why_. “Life without the means to supply yourself on Tatooine is…unpleasant.”

Qui-Gon tried not to dwell on what that might mean and failed at it. Tatooine was a miserable hellhole of a planet even by his open-minded standards.

Food. Water. Clothing. Shelter. Dear gods, he didn’t need another thing to panic about.

“What about trade?” he asked, keeping his tone level. “Anakin and Shmi have both mentioned that trade was rampant in the slave quarters of Mos Espa to share basic necessities.”

Obi-Wan looked up at him again with a thoughtful expression. Then he lifted his hand and slipped it into the folds of his tabards, not a belt pouch, before drawing out a flat packet made from the same material as his tunics.

Qui-Gon accepted it, curious. It had a heft to it, but not anything that would feel out of place if someone were to search for it among folds of cloth. The portable cloth pocket had an ingenious design as well, one that created an interesting challenge to open.

Inside was a collection of vacuum-sealed and cleverly packed goods. Most of them were common in the Core Worlds, but pricey in the Mid-Rim, and expensive rarities beyond that line. If their belts had ever been taken and divested of credits and supplies on this mission, Obi-Wan had still carried the means to supply them for the entire time, probably with enough left over to gain transport back to a Jedi-friendly port.

Qui-Gon carefully folded the pocket so it was sealed again before giving it back. “Do you bring this every time?”

“The only time I didn’t was Cordova II, but we weren’t exactly given a great deal of time to prepare for that clusterfuck,” Obi-Wan replied.

Qui-Gon bit back a smile. The Council did not appreciate that Obi-Wan kept referring to the Agnata disaster by the planet name they had actually been assigned to visit. They considered it an inappropriate level of sarcasm, which was likely why Obi-Wan kept doing it. Qui-Gon might not have taught his Padawan to be this…well, paranoid, but it seemed as if he _had_ taught Obi-Wan of Council-baiting.

It was disappointing that he didn’t have the honor of remembering it. Obi-Wan learned those lessons from a man who Qui-Gon would never be. “It’s excellent preparation for the unknown.”

Obi-Wan nodded, tucking the cloth back into place. “Yoda wants me to stop carrying it.”

That was a surprise. “Why?”

“He believes that such contingency measures remind me too much of what was, rather than what is.” Obi-Wan sighed. “It doesn’t help that I think he’s right. This is _not_ then. Even if things go completely to hell on any mission we’re assigned, we won’t be faced with that same lack.”

Qui-Gon thought about it as they continued through the station’s corridors. They were nearing the berths Obi-Wan had paid for, and the thought of sleeping through the rest of the night cycle was appealing. “Does that mean you’ll cease the illicit Sabacc, as well?”

Obi-Wan smiled. “There is not indulging in paranoia, and there is being practical. Having spare change never hurt anyone.”

“Spare change. Of course.” Qui-Gon placed his hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder when they arrived at Obi-Wan’s door. “Please go sober up.”

Obi-Wan nodded, eyes dancing. “Of course I won’t.”

“And the next time you decide to spend the evening in a bar…please remember to invite _me._ ”

Obi-Wan’s smile was slow to form, but it was one of the most open expressions of pleasure Qui-Gon had ever witnessed. “I will.”


	8. First Battle of Bothawui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck, please let him not land on the fucking rocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-beta'd by the awesome @norcumii!
> 
> Someone recently sent me an ask about how they couldn't find the original Tumblr summary where I revealed what really happened during the First Battle of Bothawui. I could have easily reposted the summary, but then my brain decided it would be much more fun to write it out in full. 
> 
> So! Here is the mission they decided to Never Ever Speak Of, promise they held to for over 20 years...

Whoever designed this stretch of hyperlane routes, and their conjunction in this one particular part of space, was a complete idiot. Obi-Wan wanted to strangle the life out of them, but unfortunately for his temper, they were long dead. Instead, he had content himself with trying to use the firepower available to him to blow holes through the massive blockade that the Separatists had erected around Bothawui. The blockade gave them the means to use artificial gravity wells to pull in ships from three different hyperspace routes. Those unfortunate ships were then either turned into scrap or captured, their contents ransomed or sold.

Two days. Two days, and everything Obi-Wan had ordered thrown at that fucking blockade had been repelled. They weren’t down on manpower, but the equipment losses were starting to irritate him.

“Sir!” Cody glanced up, grin on his face, as he watched a message appear on the holographic display. “Just got word. The 501st is inbound. Admiral Yularen sends his apologies for the late entrance.”

“That’s good to hear,” Obi-Wan said, resisting the urge to sigh in relief.

“How many ships with him?” Admiral Block asked.

“Just the _Resolute_ , sir, but they have a full complement of fighters. The Admiral reports that the _Redeemer_ is still finishing off an engagement. They’ll join us as soon as they can.”

“Let him know that we only have the _Valiant_ , the _Intrepid_ , and two dreadnoughts,” Obi-Wan told Cody. He wasn’t certain the _Resolute_ would be enough, but he was not turning down the assistance. Besides, it would mean he saw his Padawan again, among others.

When the _Resolute_ dropped out of hyperspace, Obi-Wan spent precious minutes deciding on and redirecting the ships under his command to take up new positions. If he was right, they were now stationed in front of the weakest part of the blockade.

“Looks like a good spot, Master,” Anakin said over the comm. “All 501st squadrons, launch now!”

“Cody?” Obi-Wan glanced over at him.

“Launch all reserve fighters,” Cody ordered, glaring at the screen. He wanted to be out there with his pilots, but after acting as Naval Commander for 7th Sky and Brigade Commander for the 212th simultaneously for over a month, he had to be on the bridge for these sorts of engagements. Obi-Wan sympathized, to a certain extent, but he was in no hurry to take a ship out into that mess of flak.

“There has to be an easier way to get through this blockade than this, General.” That was Admiral Wulf Yularen, the newest addition to Obi-Wan’s part of the fleet—a Judicial transplant who volunteered for service upon the Chancellor’s request. Obi-Wan didn’t quite trust him, not when it was so obvious that Yularen’s placement was Chancellor Palpatine’s means of keeping his unpleasant eye on Obi-Wan’s Padawan, but the new Admiral did listen to them, even if Yularen thought their plans were completely insane.

“Force, it’s a mess out here,” Anakin said. “I think Admiral Yularen has a point. We need to find an easier way than this.”

“Shoot them all and hope they’re not multiplying,” Oddball said in a dry voice. Obi-Wan glanced up to see him leading Gold Squadron to their spatial northwest, engaging with an entire horde of Vultures.

“Don’t use yourself as living ammunition, Gold Three!” Cody barked as one of Oddball’s fliers veered out of formation and nearly took out a Vulture along with themself. “Don’t do a Seppie’s job for them!”

“Yes, sir!” That was Glass. Obi-Wan frowned; Glass was a nervous flier, but he refused to give up on a cockpit.

“We know the droid control station is on the surface. If we had something small, sleek, and _fast_ , we could penetrate the flight wall they have around Bothawui,” Yularen finally offered. “Perhaps something flown by remote?”

“No good. They’d pick up on the energy signature,” Cody responded, turning away from the transparisteel to scowl down at the holographic readouts. They were taking out large numbers of tri-fighters, Vulture droids, buzz droids, Vespula fighters, and assorted annoyances, but there was still a multitude remaining.

Obi-Wan shook his head, irritated. They needed the full naval complement of a Systems Army for this, not two reduced naval groups and an army unit sitting in the staging areas in the hangar decks, twiddling their thumbs with nothing to do but place bets on the battle’s outcome.

“That was the same problem with breaking the blockade on the Pernellian Trade Route,” Admiral Block added, standing next to Cody and then flicking his forelock back from his eyes. “A single wing had to go in with everything on shut-down, getting a nice push from the General here until they were in range.”

“It was an…effective solution, if unorthodox,” Yularen said stiffly.

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Yularen would have to learn to cope with unorthodox, or Obi-Wan would ship him back to Command with orders to give that man a different Navy assignment, Chancellor’s protests be damned.

“Small, sleek, and no power, huh?” Anakin sounded intrigued. “You know, they didn’t pick up on basic life support the last time we pulled that trick.”

“The last time we pulled that trick, we had time and opportunity to set our trap properly,” Obi-Wan responded, amused. “They will likely not fall for cloaked asteroids a second time, Padawan.”

“Actually, I wasn’t thinking about asteroids at all,” Anakin said in a carefully neutral tone.

Obi-Wan’s chin jerked up, recognizing one of Anakin’s worst tells for mischief. “Anakin. Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is _no_.”

“But what if it works? You’ve been throwing shit at this blockade for two days, Master. If we keep throwing pilots at this wall, we’re going to see a lot of losses that we can’t afford!”

“Then come back here and discuss it—”

“Shit!” Cody barked. “Commander Skywalker has been hit! Captain Rex—”

“We’re on him!” Rex yelled through the comm. “My wing’s watching his ass. Skywalker, your Aethersprite took an engine hit on the left side!”

“Yeah, we’re locking it down,” Anakin muttered. “Artoo, please put out that fire, huh?”

“Anakin. Report,” Obi-Wan said, keeping his voice firm and level.

“Artoo says the Aethersprite needs a tow and time up on a maintenance rack to be spaceworthy again,” Anakin replied. “And hey, I’ve got some great forward momentum going, and this handy EVA suit…”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. “Anakin. Don’t you dare.”

“Commander’s prerogative, Master!” Anakin chirped back. Obi-Wan swore under his breath. “I’m out here in the middle of this battle, and that makes it my call. I’m going to get through this blockade and shut this battle down cold.”

“Captain Rex, please _shoot him_ so that cockpit won’t open!” Obi-Wan growled.

“Uh, General, that’s…he said that _after_ he abandoned ship,” Rex reported.

Fuck. Obi-Wan shoved his hand through his hair. Biological flight. EVA. Life-signs. If the CIS had learned anything from Kello’s defeat—

He didn’t give himself time to think about it. He simply turned and ran.

“SIR!” Cody yelled.

“KEEP HAMMERING ON THEIR DEFENSES!” Obi-Wan pulled the emergency lever at the back of the bridge and jumped through the hatch as it opened. He had just enough time to grab hold of the restraints before the escape car launched.

Obi-Wan braced himself on the wall as the car flew along its track straight back to the hangar bay. Within minutes, it came to a screeching halt that tossed him against the side, but he ignored the bruising. Obi-Wan could yell at maintenance for not making certain that all of the ship’s inertial dampers were functioning properly at some other time.

“Sir,” Cody’s voice was in his ear, broadcast through the comm he was still wearing. “I asked the hangar crew to prep the smallest ship we have, but that ship does not have shields.”

“Is it fast?” Obi-Wan asked, leaving the primary escape path and dropping several meters down to the main hangar floor when he saw a crew gathered and working. It was, as promised, a _very_ small ship.

“She’s little more than a manned probe with the means to shoot rocks out of her way, but yeah. She’s got the speed, General.” Cody sounded strangled. “Please do not get yourself killed chasing after our insane Commander.”

“Absolutely not,” Obi-Wan responded, giving the tiny craft a quick once-over. It was going to be a tight fit, and if he took a laser blast from a Vulture droid, that ship would be in pieces.

Obi-Wan took a breath. He didn’t need shields. He just needed the Force.

“Sir.” Fifty-Squared held out a helmet. “You’ll need EVA gear. There are only five minutes of air in that canister before you’re breathing your own waste.”

“I only need five minutes.” Obi-Wan ignored the helmet and dropped into the small ship’s open cockpit, thinking on how he was _really_ going to hate flying after this. His knees were wedged against the boards, but he could get at the stick, and the pedals had the silken response he was looking for. Small, sleek, fast, and most importantly: maneuverable. “Seal this hatch, Ensign.”

Fifty-Squared grimaced. “Yes, sir. Please don’t die, General.”

“I have no intention of doing so.” Obi-Wan did, however, have the intention of haunting Anakin if this got him killed.

Cody’s voice was a comforting growl in his ear. “Sir, Commander Skywalker has gone comm-silent. He’s shut down all power except for whatever is fueling that EVA suit. Bearing mark four-two-eight-seven-five-five-zero once you leave the hangar.”

“Thank you, Commander. I’m going comm-silent as well; I won’t have the luxury of that sort of time.” Obi-Wan took one last breath of fresh air before the seals engaged. Then, he did something he once would have scoffed at being capable of—he settled into a state that was part meditation, part hibernation trance.

Limited oxygen was no longer a problem. What Obi-Wan wanted now was pinpoint focus, and possibly the twitchiest reflexes in the known universe.

What Obi-Wan needed most was for Anakin to stay alive while he acted as noisy, annoying bait.

His ears popped when the hatch pressurized. _Needs must_ , he thought, and launched.

Anakin’s startled shout of mental panic was near-deafening when he realized he had a craft guarding his wing. Such as it was. _Master, are you out of your mind?_

 _Shut up, slip through that blockade, and let me kill everything that tries to kill you!_ Obi-Wan nailed a tri-fighter that veered in Anakin’s direction with his first volley. It was a weak gun on a weak craft, so it didn’t do much more than draw the tri-fighter’s focus away from its curious perusal of a freefalling body. That wasn’t nearly as satisfying as an explosion, but distractions would serve just as well.

 _Master, even_ I _wouldn’t be able to fly through this blockade,_ Anakin shouted back, _and I’m the better pilot! You’re going to get yourself killed!_

 _No. I. Wont!_ The pedals responded like the silk they’d proclaimed themselves to be, sending Obi-Wan on a deceptively easy loop around the next ships that came blazing in. One tri-fighter became five, and then ten—and then the patrol fighters joined the game. He was most worried about the Vultures and the buzz-droids, especially the latter. It would take very little for those annoying bastards to rip this ship apart.

“Coming up on your tail to steal away some of your fun, General!” Hardcase announced, and blazed a trail with 501st’s Dispatch Wing to clear out some of the drek trying to crawl up his backside.

Obi-Wan signaled his appreciation to the lieutenant and returned his focus to the rather large number of fighters starting to gather in front of him. The net in the blockade opened just a bit wider as they did so. Before, Anakin might have had to squeeze through a place in the ranks; now the gap was wide open. Shit.

He used up some of his oxygen to break comm-silence and issue the order: “Stay away from that hole in the net! We’re trying to draw attention away from it, not make things worse!”

“Acknowledged, General.” Rex sounded like he was clenching his jaw and just shy of furious. Obi-Wan had no idea if Rex was angry at the droids for shooting at his commanding officers, or at Anakin for deciding to EVA through a blockade wall. Hells, maybe both.

Weaknesses. A pitched space battle often drove Obi-Wan to distraction; there was so much happening at once. It was easier to concentrate when he had a singular goal.

Wing joints. Thrusters. Optical sensors. Repulsors. Weapons mounts. Sublight engines. Obi-Wan couldn’t destroy them with the ship’s pathetic gun, but he could fucking well cripple them.

_I’m through! PULL BACK, JACKASS!_

_Not yet, you’re not_! Obi-Wan yelled back, breaking free of the debris wall and putting on speed. Anakin was using a portable ray shield to protect himself from the burn of planetary re-entry, and that flare of heat had attracted the attention of another damned Vulture droid.

Obi-Wan lined up the shot and fired, resulting in a fantastically timed _nothing_. He’d drained the single weapon bank dry. He didn’t even have enough air left to shout in frustration.

 _Fine,_ Obi-Wan snarled. He poured every single bit of available energy into the sublights, aiming directly at the Vulture. At the last moment, he twisted the controls and careered into the Vulture’s wing from the side instead of ramming it head-on.

 _What the fuck are you doing?_ Anakin yelped in alarm. _Where the fuck did that thing come from_?

Obi-Wan braced himself as the cockpit inverted itself over and over again from the spin of impact. _Who cares where it came from! Is it still following you?_

_ARE YOU INSANE, MASTER? YOU JUST TRASHED THAT SHIP!_

_Good!_ At least that part of the plan had worked. The ship’s spin began to slow as Bothawui’s gravity clutched at the craft with greedy fingers.

On the next slowing revolution, Obi-Wan caught a glimpse of Anakin through the cracked transparisteel. He was now far beyond the reach of Separatist spacecraft, and would only need to deal with whatever was guarding the control station on the surface. _I’m dead in the water. Be careful down there, Padawan._

 _I’m not worried about me,_ Anakin retorted in concern. _Can anyone get to you?_

Obi-Wan craned his head around to get a look at the battle behind him. _Well…no. I sort of followed you through the blockade._

 _For shit’s sake, Master_. Anakin sounded bewildered. _The next time you say my flying is nuts, I’m referring to this moment right here._

 _I would prefer that we never, ever speak of this again,_ Obi-Wan replied. _I’ll be joining you on the surface shortly._

Obi-Wan could all but feel Anakin’s flinch. _You’d better survive that landing, Obi-Wan. It was almost impossible to sit on Cody when you decided to vacation on Rattatak._

 _I’ll be fine. Concentrate on shutting down this battle,_ Obi-Wan ordered. _May the Force be with you._ He waited until he was certain that Anakin was occupied with his shielded freefall and then turned his attention to trying to save his own skin. Everything was nonfunctional except for shields and the fucking landing lights. He had foolishly turned down the EVA gear that might have gained him an easier escape.

This…was going to be an exciting trip.

 _Get the repulsors back_ , Obi-Wan told himself. He yanked the wiring free from the underside of the control panels and tried to figure out the resulting disaster by feel and instinct. The heat from the burn of re-entry was a distraction he couldn’t afford to pay attention to. The only thing he could do was nudge the ship level, keeping her from burning faster than the shields could compensate. Then all he could do was let her ride.

Just the repulsors. He didn’t need anything else. Just the repulsors.

Obi-Wan stole the trickle of energy that was lingering in the weapon battery. He captured the pathetic remnants remaining in the thrusters—lost half of it in the transfer, but half was better than zero. He stole every single bit of juice he could get from the shield batteries the moment he was through the atmospheric burn. The temperature began to climb almost at once, but he ignored it.

Just the repulsors. That was all he needed. _Please, Force, let me pull this off._ He didn’t want to die, not yet. He wouldn’t regret the sacrifice if it ultimately meant that his insane Padawan survived, but Obi-Wan was not yet done with this life, or this war.

The clouds parted, revealing the landscape of Bothawui with startling clarity. Obi-Wan was coming down fast over a flat stretch of golden grassland. He could see outcroppings of black rocks.

Fuck, please let him not land on the fucking rocks.

Obi-Wan ignored the burn in his lungs as his body finally began to register the lack of oxygen. He would have plenty of oxygen in about twenty seconds. Nineteen. Eighteen.

He held his hand out over the controls. Fifteen. Fourteen.

Perfect timing. Twelve. Use the Force. Get it right. Please. Nine. Eight. Seven…

At the last possible moment, Obi-Wan slammed his hand down on the control panel and activated the repulsors. They engaged at once, bouncing the tiny ship back up into the air.

“YES!” he rasped, grinning.

Then the repulsors died.

“Fuck.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Cody didn’t wait until Commander Skywalker announced what would definitely be a success. He left Admiral Block and Commander Strand in charge of the bridge, using the second emergency bridge pod to race the length of the _Valiant_. Sergeant Waxer already had his squad assembled in the hangar, getting a LARTY ready for them to fly down to the surface. Cody counted buckets and approved of Waxer’s choices: Boil, Longshot, Trapper, Grim, and Socket for the squad, with CMO Zed to round things out.

“That’s it! Droid control station is down!” Commander Skywalker’s voice crowed over the open comms. “Though I could use some help down here. There are a few non-droid elements in this base, and they don’t play fair.”

“Captain Rex, take the 501st down to Bothawaui and home in on Commander Skywalker’s location. Give him that assist,” Cody ordered.

“Yes, sir! We’re on it.” Rex sounded grim. “Any word on the General?”

“No word yet,” Cody replied, and then sharpened his voice. “All ground units for the 212th! Launch now and sweep the surface of Bothawui. Look for signs of any Seppie holdouts. 7th Sky! Clear this drek and make certain we don’t have any enemy ships attempting escape. If there are living pilots for the CIS out there, I want them in our holding cells _yesterday_!”

Cody listened to the reassuring sounds of all of his men confirming, getting ready to do their jobs. “Sergeant, get this bucket moving.”

Waxer saluted. “Boil, you’re co-piloting.”

“Why not make Longshot do it?” Boil asked, but he was already dropping into the other seat. “It’s his turn on the stick!”

“I’ve got better eyes than you,” Longshot said, tapping his fingers along a pair of macrobinoculars. “As soon as we clear atmosphere to get downside, I’ve got my eyes on the prize.”

“Twenty credits say I find the General before you do,” Socket challenged him.

Cody rolled his eyes. “I don’t give a kriffing rat’s ass who finds him. Just do it! Zed, have that life-signs detector ready to go.”

Zed swallowed but nodded. “Sir, yes, sir.” Cody had no idea how any brother had come out of Kamino with a fear of flying, but Zed managed it. At least he was smart enough to keep his head down in the field. The 212th’s previous CMO had lasted all of a kriffing week.

Waxer caught Cody’s hand signal and opened both LARTY doors the moment they broke through the atmosphere. “Block sent word. Bridge crew has the General’s last known trajectory putting him in the south,” Grim reported. “Plenty of grassy areas to land.”

Longshot and Socket already had their eyes glued to their macrobinoculars. “I’ve got a smoke trail—what’s left of it, I mean,” Socket said. “Bearing south-by-southwest, Sergeant.”

“Eh, nudge that a bit more west-by-southwest,” Longshot added. “Oh, hey. Got something! You owe me twenty, Socket!”

“You kriffing shit!”

“Whoa,” Longshot breathed a moment later. “That’s different.”

Cody felt his gut clench. Please let his idiot General not have gotten himself killed.

The feeling didn’t get any better when he finally put eyes on the crash site. “She looks like she was stepped on by a walker,” Cody muttered. “Zed?”

“Got happy signs, Commander,” Zed answered. “There is definitely something alive in that ship.”

“Kriffin’ _how_?” Boil wondered, and was promptly smacked on the back of his bucket by Grim. “Hey!”

Cody was out of the LARTY before Waxer and Boil were finished putting her down. “Zed, with me! Grim, Socket—keep an eye out. The last thing we need is a sudden case of droids crawling up our asses!”

“Yes, sir!” Grim caressed the arm cannon he preferred to carry around. The 501st had been a terrible influence on some of the 212th.

The survey craft was definitely never going to survey again, Cody decided in bemusement. What was left of the sublights were still sending up wisps of smoke. Her wings were folded under on one side and sheared off on the other. The cockpit was cracked, with one panel blown out completely.

Cody grabbed the twisted remains of the ladder and hauled himself up alongside the cockpit, wiping greasy smoke residue from the transparisteel. His idiot General was slumped forward in the seat, blood staining his tunics and armor from what Cody thought might be a head wound. “Zed?”

“Not getting anything traumatic,” Zed said after consulting his scanner. “He’s probably just out.”

“Looks like he popped the repulsors to reduce speed,” Cody muttered. It was a good idea. It was an _insane_ idea, but Cody approved of anything that kept a pilot alive. He took a breath and hammered on the cockpit with one fist. “GENERAL!”

General Kenobi’s head snapped up. Then he winced and groaned. “Oh, fuck, never again,” he whined.

Cody grinned. “Not in this ship, you’re not. You all right in there, sir?”

Kenobi let his head fall back and looked to be considering it. Then he reached up and started undoing the restraints. “Get me the fuck out of here, and I’ll be fabulous, Commander.”

It took Cody, Socket, Longshot, and Waxer to pry up the ruined cockpit hatch, which groaned and shrieked in protest. When there was enough room for someone the General’s size to slide out, Kenobi did so—and almost landed in the dirt before Boil caught him.

“Great kriffin’ _gods_ , sir,” Boil yelped. “You are kriffing nuts!”

“I’m aware, Private,” Kenobi replied, and then patted Boil’s shoulder armor. “You haven’t personalized it yet.”

Boil shrugged after making certain the General was standing upright. “Only thing that feels appropriate is a set of teeth, but I don’t want to give that crazy fuck in the 501st a reason to bite me again.”

“Wise choice.” Kenobi finally looked up as Cody and the others hopped down from the ruined ship. “Oh. She looks like she’s been stepped on by a walker, doesn’t she?”

Cody smiled. “That’s what I said, General. Zed! How is this man?”

“I’m fine—” Kenobi started to protest, but Zed pulled his helmet and glared at him. The effect was pretty great; Zed kept his eyebrows shaved off so everyone would pay more attention to the jagged tattoos that gave him a permanent, vicious scowl.

“I’ll be the judge of that, sir.” Zed gave Kenobi a full sensor sweep while their General sulked. Then Zed lifted the hair from Kenobi’s forehead that had dried in place from the head bleed. “Pupils are good. No concussion. No broken bones. That’s a kriffing miracle.”

“Anything on oxygen deprivation?” Kenobi was sensible enough to ask.

Zed shook his head. “No, you’re reading green. You’re going to be bruised, and you’ll feel like kriffin’ _shit_ in a few hours, but give it one of those Jedi healing trances and you’ll be terrifying the Separatists again by morning, sir.”

“Excellent.” Kenobi rubbed at his forehead and winced again as he encountered the source of the dried blood. It wasn’t a bad slice, but head wounds loved to bleed. “I take it by your presence here that Anakin succeeded in shutting down the droid control station.”

“Yes, sir,” Cody replied. “The 501st went to go help with cleanup. 212th is down here scouting the rest of Bothawui for Separatist hideouts, and they’ll report back if the CIS had any further negative effects on the locals. 7th Sky is clearing the air of any remaining surprises.”

“Excellent.” Their General drew in a breath, let it out slowly, and then straightened in place. He was bloody, dusty, and his hair was a mess, and still he managed to look every inch their commanding officer, something that filled Cody with intense pride. “I need to return to the ship and let GAR Command know that we’ve achieved our objectives.”

“Maybe clean up first, General?” Waxer suggested, snickering behind his bucket.

Kenobi snorted. “If they have yet to fathom that this is a war, then they will simply have to cope with the messy reality. Oh, and where did Hack move his still? I know he keeps shifting it to keep Yularen’s nose out of it, but that makes it rather inconvenient when it’s time for a drink.”

“Think it might actually be on the _Valiant_ instead of the _Resolute_ , sir,” Boil said. “Definitely harder for Admiral Yularen to find the good stuff if it’s not even on his ship.”

Cody growled. “Just…keep it under wraps, huh?” If it was found, he wouldn’t have access, either.

Another LARTY came along to give the General a lift topside. “Toby, get the General up to the _Valiant_ ,” Cody ordered, and his pair of sergeants saluted. “General, after you call in, I strongly suggest some downtime.”

Kenobi smiled at him and slapped Cody on the back. “You’ve read my mind, Commander.”

Cody nodded, but he was thinking on his secret weapon. If their General wasn’t smart enough to take some downtime tonight while their men finished cleaning up after the blockade, he’d make certain that Rex had time and opportunity to go sit on Kenobi’s ass. Cody didn’t know if the General and Rex were violating regs—he didn’t think so, Rex wasn’t really the type—but days like today he didn’t give a kriffing shit if they were fucking like rodents. As long as his General was taking care of himself, ready to stand up and lead them to another victory, Cody would be happy.

 


End file.
